


First Comes Marriage

by mistysinkat



Series: Prompts and Drabbles [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistysinkat/pseuds/mistysinkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bran and Dorian get married at a 24-hour justice of the peace as a joke and have to deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Comes Marriage

The plane ride home was unbearably silent. The knowledge of what they’d done burned a hole in Bran’s mind, even if he couldn’t exactly remember the deed.

For his part, Dorian sat perfectly still, inched as far away as he could in those insufferably tiny seats. His earbuds were in, armor against any uncomfortable conversation they may have had.

Oh, there had been laughter enough that morning when they’d woken up naked in Bran’s hotel room, tangled in sheets and each other. Neither really remembered the night before, but the scene was quite clear.

There was also the fact that everything in the lower half of Bran’s body ached.  _Everything_. That told Bran enough. More than enough.

“Just look at us! We’re such a Rivaini cliché. One night of drunken revelry, and it’s right to the casual sex. How quaint! How adorable!”

Dorian had been beside himself with mirth at the very idea. Bran had not.

“Oh, cheer up. What’s that ridiculous saying? What happens in Rivain stays in Rivain?”

Bran had rolled his eyes at that as he neatly boxed this latest hurt, labelled it  _Casual Sex_ , and hid it away in the back of his mind. Dorian didn’t need to know what was in that box, or any of the others that populated that particular shadowed corner, for that matter.

Dorian didn’t need to know that Bran had been smitten from the moment he showed up to answer the elf’s want ad for a roommate. Dorian didn’t need to know that Bran’s easy joking and wild flirting had started as his typical blustery banter, but had become a quest just to see Dorian’s smile and hear his laugh as often as possible. Dorian didn’t need to know that Bran’s face softened into a blushing, secret smile whenever he thought of him.   

Dorian also didn’t need to know that each man he brought home, each night of passion overheard through too-thin walls, broke Bran’s heart a little bit at a time.

So he swallowed the hurt and smiled back.

“Too bad we don’t remember a damn thing,” he’d said.

“I’m sure I was spectacular,” Dorian snorted.

“Hmmm… I don’t know… I’m feeling awfully rested this morning,” Bran teased.

“Veritable bullshit. You look terrible, trust me,” Dorian said with a smirk as he pulled on the jeans he’d been wearing the night before. “Ah, the walk of shame…”

That had all been before Dorian pulled a single piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. A single piece of paper that changed nothing and everything all at once.

A Rivaini cliché, indeed.

——————————————-

It had been weeks since they’d returned to Haven, to the little apartment they called home. Weeks of shifting silence and NOT TALKING ABOUT IT.

Yet the problem remained, as Bran knew it would. Hiding away in his luggage, zipped up safely in the front pocket, was the little piece of paper that had made Dorian’s eyes fly open and his hands shake on sight.

A marriage certificate.

It meant nothing. A lark, a jest. Through a cloudy lens, Bran remembered flashes of that night, before he’d gotten blackout drunk. Dorian had thought it the height of comedy at the time.

“Bran, look! One of those tacky 24-hour wedding places! Oh, I must see what this is…”

“…. Bran, we have to. We simply have to. Can you  _imagine_?”

Bran found he could, actually, and didn’t his knees get weak when Dorian had said “I do,” with a wicked twinkle in his eyes? Hadn’t Bran’s heart been in his throat when he’d returned the vows?

Wasn’t his mind screaming, “not like this!” the entire time?

On the surface, those vows didn’t alter much. Dorian still slept in his own bed in his own room. Bran still woke up first and walked the dog. Dorian still stayed out till all hours.

Same old, same old.

The only noticeable change was that there were now uncomfortable silences and grunted responses where there had once been easy jokes and animated conversations. Emptiness where there’d been discussions covering a comically wide swath of topics, from the nature of magic in the modern age (“A shame technology has all but replaced the old ways,” Dorian had lamented as he scrolled lazily through his phone) to idle gossip about their neighbors (“Did you hear what blondie in 47B was up to last night?” “How could I not? You must tell me, is that an _elf_ thing?”).

A slight shift, but it left Bran empty, lonely in his own home. Dorian had become a stranger to him since then. Brooding and distant, he avoided the elf rather obviously, and that - that _reaction_ \- was too much to bear.

_He can’t even look at me. Am I so wrong, so awful or boring, that he can’t even *think* about us… together?_

Bran sat at his desk, staring blankly at the bright screen of his laptop. Did he mean to get work done? Laughable. His mind and heart weren’t in it. As they had been for weeks now, they were clouded. Murky with confusion and frustration and hurt.

_Maybe if we don’t talk about it, things will right themselves? No, that’s dumb, Bran. You’re being dumb._

_Still_ , he thought as his gaze shifted to the front pocket of his suitcase,  _something has to be done. We’re legally bound. Fen’harel’s balls, we can’t just keep avoiding it._

_Right?_

He’d wanted to talk. Creators, he  _needed_ to. But Dorian would clam up the moment things shifted in that direction, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell his friends. He hadn’t even told his sister, and she knew everything.

_They’ll all think I’m a fool or a joke. And Meria has enough on her mind now. I can’t unload on her._

He laid his head on crossed arms and tried to let his mind float. To disengage. To box the hurt up so he could do what needed to be done. So he could act happy and things would be right again. After a while, maybe he would believe the act. Maybe.

He found he had great difficulty packing this one away.

His laptop chirped brightly at him. A message.

 **MerVellan** : Hey, big brother. I just got a chill. You ok?

Meria. Of course she knew when he was upset. She always did.

For one aching second, he wanted nothing more than to spill the contents of his heart to her, like he’d done so many times before. He wanted to hear her thoughts. He wanted her to just _tell him what to do_. Of the pair of them,  _she_ was the thinker, ruled by logic rather than emotion. Her advice was always sound, unbiased if a bit cold.

_No, I have to sort this myself._

**Brantasticalavellan** : So you finally admit I’m the eldest twin and I deserve your respect?

 **MerVellan** : Fact dictates that you are older. Experience indicates no respect deserved. :P

 **Brantasticalavellan** : Lol. Rude.

 **MerVellan** : Truth, I speak it.

 **MerVellan** : … but seriously, are you ok?

 **Brantasticalavellan** : Pfft. When am I not?

 **MerVellan** : All the damn time, Bran. All the time. >.>;

 **Brantasticalavellan** : Heh, well I’m also speaking truth. I’m ok.

 **MerVellan** : ….

 **MerVellan** : Really, though? :/ (that’s my “I don’t believe you” face)

 **Brantasticalavellan** : Cross my heart, hope to die, Mer.

 **Brantasticalavellan** : But hey, I’m about to run. I’m meeting friends for dinner. Catch you later?

 **MerVellan** : I’ll be around.

 **MerVellan** : If you need me.

 **MerVellan** : Not that you would, oh wise sage. :p

 **Brantasticalavellan** : Stuff it, you. XD

 **MerVellan** : Haha. Have fun! <3

 **Brantasticalavellan** : I’m sure I will. Bye!

Bran laid his head back down on his desk, still as the stone while sunset faded into night and filled his room with shadow.

So, days and weeks passed, and neither he nor Dorian spoke of that simple sheet of paper.

——————————————-

Another week. Two more weeks. It had been six miserable weeks since their trip.

At least they’d been able to speak to one another again in that last few weeks. Fumbling attempts at their previous ease led to conversations that grew slowly more confident with time. Natural.  _Normal_.

At least on the surface. Below that, Bran was still heartsick, boiling with indecision. He tried, Mythal help him, he tried to broach the subject after Dorian stopped avoiding him.

“Dorian… about that trip…”

“Would you just look at that? The mages in Orlais are organizing under Madam de Fer. Frightful woman. They’ll go far.”

And that’s how it went.

Until Bran reached his limit.

_Fuck him. If he won’t do anything, I will._

Heartache turned to anger. It always turned to anger. Anger was easier. It replaced indecision with focus. It gave him what he needed to finally act.

A quick internet search and he had his answer.

“We have to go back to Rivain. Now,” Bran demanded that evening when Dorian stumbled into their apartment.

Something in his tone cut through Dorian’s tipsy buzz. His eyebrows raised, and Bran felt the weight of his consideration.

“Rivain? Whatever for? Our last excursion there… well, you know,” he finally managed, dropping his gaze and trailing off onto mumbles. It was the closest they’d come to speaking about it since that morning.

“I do know, and that’s why we have to go back. To fix this mess,” Bran insisted.

“Fix it? But we’re fine now. A few awkward weeks are nothing after a… dalliance,” Dorian argued, eyes shifting to the side.

_More avoidance!_

“Don’t even  _act_ like that’s what this is about,” Bran could feel his tone rising. He fought to control his temper as he stood. “This is about the… the  _marriage_ ,” his voice faltered for a moment as he realized the word was far harder to say out loud than he’d thought it would be.

He swallowed, hard, before he continued, “It can be annulled, but we have to go  _there_ to do it. We only have two more weeks. After that, we’d have to file for a divorce. I’m fairly certain that’s something you don’t want to deal with.”

Bran watched as a strange mixture of emotion washed over Dorian’s face. He wasn’t sure, but was that pain?

“No. No, you’re right. I don’t want that,” he finally replied, “Annulment, then.”

Bran was shocked to hear the despondent tone, to see the man’s shoulders slump.

Still, his resolve held.

“I’ll book the trip,” Bran said. Dorian nodded and made his way to his room silently.

Bran felt better for having made a decision, finally, but the way Dorian had reacted…

_Is he… is he sad? Was that disappointment?_

——————————————-

They left for Rivain three days later. In those three days, they’d backpeddled. The progress made, obliterated. Avoidance became the norm again, and Bran found himself packing his bag in silence. Quite a change from the last time he’d prepared for this trip. Back then, only six weeks ago, they’d packed together, discussing what they should bring and laughing as they tried to decide what to do once they got there.

This time, though, the agenda was quite focused. There was only one activity on the roster.

End it.

Bran sighed, weary, as he finished packing and confirmed the piece of paper that had ruined everything was still tucked into his luggage.

——————————————-

The ride to the airport. The flight itself. The trip to the county courthouse. The whole journey was sullen and silent. Grim.

Dorian was sulking.

_I’m giving him a way out. Why is he acting like this?_

——————————————-

“You boys’re cutting it close here,” the clerk commented as he pulled up their information. He turned to gather the paperwork required to make this all so it had never happened.

_In the eyes of the law, anyway._

Bran had a feeling nothing would be right again between him and Dorian. His stomach twisted.

_I’ll probably need to put out another ad for a roommate soon._

“Another week, and this would be a very different process,” the clerk continued, “As it is, I just need you both to sign… you here and you here,” he pointed to the lines at the bottom of the document before continuing, “I’ll certify it and you’ll be free men again. After you pay the fee, of course.”

“Of course,” Bran agreed with a flat tone.

 _Free men,_  he thought dully as he signed the paper.  _Free, right._

The clerk pushed the paper to Dorian. Bran watched as he picked up the pen.

His hands were shaking. Trembling.

Shocked, Bran shifted his focus to Dorian’s face.

_He’s fighting something… tears?_

“Dorian, stop,” Bran said softly.

“Here we go,” the clerk muttered. Bran paid him no mind.

“This was  _your_ idea.  _Your_ call,” Dorian said, tone accusatory and sharp before he sighed and softened, “And it’s the right one.”

Dorian looked away, brows knit, “Even if I wanted to pretend, just for a while.”

“ _Pretend_? Pretend what? Dorian, you ignored me. Wouldn’t even  _look_ at me for weeks after…”

“I said I  _wanted_ to pretend. I didn’t say I could. How could I? How could I expect you to?” Dorian’s voice was rising, shaking around the edges. His hands went to his lap as he worked them anxiously, “I’m not… I’m not  _good_ enough. I’ll never be. You’re one of the few truly decent men I’ve ever met. Thoughtful! Kind! You deserve so much more than what I could ever give…”

His chin dropped to his chest before he finished, low and sad, “How could I imagine  _you’d_  even look at _me_?”

_Not good enough…. For me? Does this mean that all this time… All this time, he was also…?_

The heartache, the uncertainty, the anger, it all lifted in that moment. It was like seeing the dawn after a starless night that had lasted an age.

_He was also…_

A switch flipped in Bran’s mind. Boxes were unpacked and thrown away. A window opened to clear stagnant air and chase the darkness away.

“Dorian,” Bran whispered softly as he cupped the other man’s jaw, pulling those sorrowful, gray eyes to meet his own, “I’m looking at you now. I  _see_ you. I’ve  _always_ seen you.”

Dorian gasped as Bran leaned in and brushed his lips with a single, gentle kiss.

“You  _are_ good enough. You are  _plenty_ good enough.”

A polite cough pulled them from the moment.

“Just  _beautiful_. Should I rip this thing up, or…?” the clerk asked, annoyance seeping into his tone.

The two men looked at each other, eyes wet with tears of relief that hadn’t fallen. After a silent moment, they nodded, smiling.

“Maker, no, I’m still signing it,” Dorian laughed, genuine and easy, “We’re hardly ready for…  _this_.”

“But when… if… we are, we’ll do it right,” Bran added as he watched Dorian sign the paperwork.

“We will,” Dorian nodded, “We have all the time in the world to figure it out. We can take it slowly… together.”

And so they did.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write last night, but had no idea what to do. The kind and generous @sallyamongpoison shot me a prompt for Bran and Dorian that I’m pretty sure was meant to be fluff, but I of course turned it into angst.
> 
> Orginal Prompt: We forgot to tell our friends that we eloped while on holiday, and now it’s been so long we don’t know how to break the news. 
> 
> Twisted into Angst: We eloped on holiday as a joke, and now we can’t discuss it with anyone - especially each other.
> 
> I should also add that here, Rivain = Las Vegas analog. I’m not even sure that’s accurate, be there you go.
> 
> Oh, another thing. Meria is pronounced "MARE-ee-uh." Like Nymeria from Game of Thrones, but minus the "Ny" (I romanced Solas with her playthrough. I wanted a wolfy name). Which means that Bran's name for her, "Mer," is pronounced "Mare." In case anyone wanted to know.


End file.
